The Walking Path
by lil-anonymous-girl
Summary: In life we walk the path of the choices we made. Of these choices, Percival dreams.


Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters from _The Lord of the Flies_.

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There she was.

She was drowning in a near perfect scenery- the gleam of the intricate black metal fence that surrounded the outdoor tables screamed "polished," the properly cared for flowers belonging to the flower bed grew proudly beside the little metal table, a parasol sprouted tall from the center of the table casting part of the table in shadows, butterflies danced over the multitude of colors, and the light shone gently over the entire scene. It would have been perfect but that hum! Somewhere beyond the pretty scene before me was an incessant buzzing, so familiar yet I couldn't put a name on it at the moment should anyone ask. No matter, the sound was annoying, but tolerable. What I was interested in was _her_. I honestly can't say who precisely she was, but from the way she was sitting properly in her chair- hands on her laps, back straight, pose perfect as if she expected an artist to be painting her portrait- I would say she was British. The dress she wore had lace and ribbon and it fell right down to her ankles. She sat on the shaded side of the table, casting her face in shadows but I could tell she was looking at me. I'm not sure how but I just _knew,_ just like I know my name is Percival Wemys Madison, just like I know I will never forget that.

Curiously I start to wander towards her. At first my movements are reluctant. Mother always told me not to go to strangers but she seems nice enough. Step by step I inch towards her- drawing closer to this woman and the odd buzzing sound and farther from the safety of all I've ever know, farther away from the safety of my mother. About the third of the way to her, my movement is stopped. I tear my eyes away from the hypnotic images and the unknown promises that the mysterious woman seems to be making and look back to see what's stopped me. My eyes meet the alarmed ones of my mother.

She's clutching the back of my school sweater, wrinkling the itchy fabric, and more importantly, hindering my movement. Her lips move but I blink at her confusedly- there's no sound coming from it. Still, she's my mother so I turn my back from the image completely and watch as my mother makes odd gestures and her lips keep moving. She's pointing to something behind her and I peer around her to see what. It's our city, our beautiful familiar city, with the multitude of adults and the houses crammed altogether. Little audio clips drift toward me and I can hear words that form words and order, something that I am content with. In my mother's hands is a shell, creamy colored and perfect, demanding attention. My eyes snap towards it obediantly. It's enough to keep me to this world, the one of order and rules, enough to make me forget all about the image I was walking towards. But it's not enough to keep me from wandering forever.

Soon I find myself back on the path that leads to the woman sitting under the parasol and I'm walking towards her once more. It's easier this time and my hesitation is much less. As I walk along the heat seeps in, pressing down more and more until it's unbearable and determinedly I strip off my shoes, socks and sweater and keep going. The aroma of cooking meat starts drifting toward me and I can hear whispery words like "bash" and "swine." Hungrily I continue. Halfway there someone catches my bare arm and gives it a sharp tug. It's much harder to look away from the image I realize vaguely but eventually I turn partially away nonetheless. I look at my mother whose trying to drag me back the way I just came. Stubbornly I stand my ground. "I don't want to go," I try to tell her, "I want food. I want meat." She'll hear none of it and instead waves the shell in her hands. It holds my attention but the hold is weak. It won't take long for me to break away from it. Frantically she points to the fruit that's behind her. An image of stomach aches and long trips to the latrine flash in my mind at the thought of it. But her eyes are starting to look sad and she's trying to pull me away with all her might so reluctantly I go back and munch half heartedly at it.

The fruit is unsatisfactory I find, so once more I walk. It's the easiest it has ever been and I don't hesitate at all to move towards the image. Before my eyes the woman's dress goes to tatters, the flowers wilt, and the fence rusts- the image becomes far from perfect. But I don't care anymore. Determined I march forward.

Once more I'm stopped when my destination is just before me. A few more steps and I'd be there. Annoyed I turn my head and easily gaze at the sorrowful eyes of my mother. She's trying to drag me back but I won't have any of it. "No," I tell her. "Leave me be. I want to go." When she refuses to listen and continues her attempt to drag me back my thin patience for her runs out. Harshly I jerk my arm out of her feeble grasp, causing her to stumble back. She falls ungracefully, the shell slipping from her grasp and breaking into many little pieces but I don't watch. By now I've kept going and I've finally reached my intended goal. Around me I can confirm that the near perfect scene has vanished- in its wake are many little savages with painted faces and long hair dancing round and round. Flies buzz loudly on the remains of pigs, out of control chanting rising like smoke into the air. On the side I can see a dark ocean. Peering in, my eyes meet that of a savage with long hair and a painted face whose name I have forgotten.

Peering in, I find myself looking straight into the eyes of a beastie.

With a jolt I sit up sleepily, the air humid and heavy around me and the very odd dream I had already slipping away. Behind me slept the boy we voted leader- Ralph- the pretty shell that he used to call to us nearby but I paid him no attention. Instead my curiosity was focused in front of me where the hunter leader sat sharpening a stick, drowning in the near perfect scenery.

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Lil-anonymous-girl (who from here on shall be known as Meag): I hope you enjoyed reading this. (I certainly did my best when I wrote it.) If you did, click-y the purple button below. If you didn't, feel free to send constructive criticism but please no flames. (If you do, then I might use them to make smores. Never had them before so it should be an interesting experience. n.n )


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